


A Parent's Struggles

by Bionic_Egypt



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Alfred has had it with Bruce's brooding, Bruce and Martha bond over dead sons, Character Death, Gen, It's Jason and Clark, Martha invites everyone over for brunch, They get better, Yes because of that scene, but don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 07:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13429617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bionic_Egypt/pseuds/Bionic_Egypt
Summary: Bruce knows how Martha must feel after losing her son. He had to know; he'd gone through much the same thing. And both were his fault.





	A Parent's Struggles

**Author's Note:**

> I went looking for fics set post BvS where Bruce and Martha bonded over having dead sons and only found a few, and none that brought Jason back (well, I’m still making my way through, so there might be one. I’m not sure). So, I decided to follow one of the rules of fic: “Write the fic you want to see in the world (aka do I have to do everything myself).” There are a few things I want to say before you read this, though.
> 
> 1: I don’t remember how long Clark was dead. Nor do I remember what time of year Jason died or was brought back. So if the vague ass timeline in this fic is somehow inaccurate, I apologize.  
> 2: I haven’t watched Under the Red Hood, nor have I read the comic where Jason comes back. All my knowledge of the event comes from fanfiction. I apologize for any inaccuracies, though are there really any inaccuracies when it comes to fanfiction?  
> 3: Jason mentions the Joker having a crowbar and spray paint. That’s because when the movie showed Jason’s suit, it wasn’t blown up; it was covered in spray-painted words. So I’m going with Jason was beaten to death, no bomb involved.  
> 4: Bruce is willing to kill the Joker. That’s because the Batman in the DCEU seems a bit darker and more violent (the Bat-Brand comes to mind). It doesn’t really seem like a stretch that, to get his son home, he would be willing to kill Jason’s killer.  
> I encourage everyone who wants to use this idea to run with it. Please! I’d love to see more fics where Jason is actually mentioned, and Bruce is friends with Martha. Seriously, I will read the hell out of any fic like that. With that said, please enjoy A Parent’s Struggles.

It wasn't until he looked in Martha Kent's eyes and said _I'm a friend of your son's_ that he realized he had almost taken a child away from his parents. His heart lodged itself in his throat, but he got her to safety. He made himself a promise right there, that he would never try to kill Superman unless he knew for absolute certain that there was no other option, and even then he'd search for another way.

 

And then it didn't matter that he wanted to keep her son alive, because he was gone.

 

Superman's funeral was a huge affair, with thousands of people in attendance and a military send off. Clark Kent's funeral was small, with only a handful of people who knew him gathered together in a tiny cemetery in Smallville. Bruce watched from afar as a mother buried her son, watched her show the same pain he felt every time he remembered what he himself had lost. Why hadn't he done more to save Clark? Why had he let someone else go through losing their child? He could have done _something_ , done more to help, done more to stop Luthor's creature from taking Martha Kent's child from her.

 

He stayed even as everyone else left, after Lois threw in her handful of soil and walked away, after the only person left was the person he wished didn't have to be there. He stayed, a dark shadow watching over Martha Kent, determined to protect her if anything dared happen to her, to ruin her life further.

 

He would do his best to protect her from now on, since he couldn't protect her from her current heartache.

 

* * *

 

 

The moment he heard that the Kent Farm was in trouble, he went out and did what Bruce Wayne did best: threw money at the problem and fixed it. In this case, it meant he bought the bank, with a special clause in the contract that made it so the Kent Farm would always stay in the family. It wasn't much, but he couldn't let her lose her home, not after losing her family.

 

He visited Clark's grave often enough, though he never left anything behind. He didn't feel as though he had any right. What right did he have to leave flowers for the one he tried to kill? What right did he have to mourn the one he only knew as a threat? Yet still, he visited, staying minutes or hours each time. It was nearly a month before anything different happened.

 

When Bruce arrived, Martha Kent was already there, sitting on a blanket beside the grave, one hand resting on the stone. Bruce stayed in the shadows, not wanting to disrupt her, but not wanting to leave either. Then something happened, something he wasn't expecting.

 

"You can come over here, you know; I'm not gonna stop you."

 

Bruce jerked, eyes scanning the area in case he had missed someone else lurking around. No, he was the only other one there. But that was ridiculous. Martha Kent couldn't possibly be talking to him.

 

"Come over here,"she insisted. "Please."

 

Hesitantly, Bruce stepped out from behind the tree, slowly approaching the grave and the woman beside it. She didn't turn around until he was almost beside her. Martha Kent smiled at him, a small, sad smile, but a smile all the same.

 

"Mr. Wayne. Come on, sit here beside me." She patted the blanket next to her, and though he thought it was a bad idea, he did as she asked.

 

They sat in silence for a few minutes before she said anything else.

 

"So how long were you planning on hiding out there?"

 

Bruce didn't meet her eyes as he said "Until you left."

 

Â When he finally did look at her, he saw a strange softness in her eyes. Why was she looking at him like that? Martha Kent placed her hand gently over his. "You shouldn't feel guilty. I know it wasn't your fault, and he would too, if he were here. And yes," she added as his eyes widened "I know who you are. Kinda hard not to with you skulking out around the trees like that."

 

Bruce just returned her smile, letting them fall back into a comfortable silence. He didn't accept her absolution of his guilt, wouldn't let himself stop feeling horrible about what he had caused, but it wouldn't hurt to let her believe he did.

 

* * *

 

 

Bruce started visiting Martha Kent after that. A few minutes turned into a few hours as the weeks went on. He helped where he could, mending a broken fence, fixing the tractor when it stopped working (it wasn't the batmobile, but it wasn't that hard to figure out what to do). Sometimes, when there wasn't anything he could help with, they just sat out on the porch or in her living room, a glass of tea or lemonade in their grasps.

 

Martha Kent would tell stories from Clark's childhood, of how kind he was to everyone he met, of how awkward he was when he had first gotten his x-ray vision and refused to look at girls for fear of seeing things he shouldn't see, of how much he loved the farm and didn't want to leave for school but was pushed right out the door by her and her husband. Bruce got to learn who Clark was through his mother, learned just who it was he had gotten killed.

 

In return, he helped her through the toughest parts of her grief, always willing to listen when she needed someone to talk to, to talk when she needed someone to fill the silence, to assure her it would be okay when she felt like she was falling apart. He let her lean on him; it was the least he could do, since it was his fault she was feeling this way.

 

Eventually, a routine was established. Bruce stopped by the Kent farm two or three times during the week, called or was called around five times, and always made sure he was there on Saturday morning for brunch. Well, it was really a late breakfast, but Martha Kent called it brunch, so that's what it was.

 

He felt like he was doing good. Maybe he would never make up for what he had done, but at least he could help her until she didn't need help any longer.

 

* * *

 

 

Then came the day _he_ needed help.

 

To anyone else, it was a normal day. The sun was hiding behind the layer of smog that clung to Gotham, the people were wary as always, and Bruce Wayne was expected to be his usual pleasantly-dumb self. But he couldn't. Not today. So he did what he had done for the last few years on this day: he called his assistant and told her he wouldn't be in, crept into the Cave, and hid in the shadows, eyes always drawing back to the case that held his son's uniform.

 

That was where Alfred found him, two hours later, a pitying look on his face, Bruce's cellphone in hand.

 

"Mrs. Kent called earlier," he said, handing Bruce the phone. "She was worried when you did not show for brunch. I've taken the liberty of preparing the Bat Wing for your trip."

 

"I can't."

 

Alfred's look hardened, though not unkindly. "You can. Now, if I may be so bold, you need to get up, fly over to the Kent Farm, and have lunch with the woman who knows better than anyone what you're going through."

 

Somehow, Bruce found himself doing just that.

 

He didn't even realize what he was doing until he was stepping out of the Bat Wing - which Martha Kent had given him permission to land in the fields when he visited - and trudging toward the two-story farmhouse he had become so familiar with. Martha Kent was on the porch, waiting for him. He couldn't meet her eyes, even as he let her take his hand and lead him into the house.

 

"Bruce? Alfred called and said that today was a hard day for you, but he didn't say why. But judging by how you look right now, I think I might know."

 

Bruce hadn't even realized they were in the living room until she gently pushed him toward the couch. He sank down on the old cushion, eyes glazed with what he refused to admit were tears. He had no right to be here, not now, not today. He couldn't face the woman whose son he helped kill on the day his own son was taken from him.

 

Martha Kent's voice pulled him partway out of the fog that had claimed his mind. "Bruce, I can't help you if you won't talk to me. What's wrong?"

 

Something in her voice broke his resolve to remain silent. "I'm sorry," he forced out, trying like hell to keep himself together. "I'm sorry."

 

Martha Kent just held his hand, waiting for him to speak.

 

"It's been years," he finally said, voice low. "I shouldn't still feel like this. But every year, it's the same thing. What could I have done differently, could it have been changed?"

 

"Your parents?" she guessed gently.

 

Bruce shook his head. "My son."

 

He heard her suck in a soft gasp. He didn't blame her. Everyone who knew the name Bruce Wayne knew the story of how he saw his parents' murder when he was just a child. Not many people knew he even had sons, let alone that one of them died and the other refused to talk to him. He had done everything in his power to keep them out of the media. He counted it as one of his only successes as a father.

 

"Tell me about him," Martha Kent finally said when it became apparent that Bruce wasn't going to continue. "Not how he died, not his funeral, nothing like that. Just tell me about _him_. What was he like?"

 

"I adopted him when he was thirteen," he began after a few moments of silence "after I caught him trying to steal the tires off the Batmobile."

 

* * *

 

 

After that, things got easier. Now instead of just Martha sharing stories from Clark's childhood, Bruce shared tales of his time raising his own boys. He told her of every wonderful time he remembered with them, mostly from his youngest's time in the manor. But sometimes, he shared tales of his eldest son, the son he hadn't spoken to since his youngest's funeral.

 

When Martha heard about that, she almost made him call him right then and there. It was only by explaining that his eldest told him he would call when he wanted to try to reconcile that she backed off, but only just. Bruce could tell that she wanted to press the issue, but she would hold off for now.

 

Instead, she encouraged him to share his stories, so she could learn about his family the way he had learned about hers. He shared those stories willingly. The only thing he didn't share, other than the things she had asked not to hear, were the boys' names. Some things were just too hard to say.

 

* * *

 

 

When the parademons started showing up and Bruce started forming the team, he took a few hours to visit Smallville and warn Martha about the oncoming disaster.

 

"Promise me you'll be safe," she said, grabbing his hands in a tight grip.

 

"I can't do that."

 

There was a hard look in her eyes as she repeated "Promise me. I can't lose anyone else."

 

He didn't have a choice. No matter how awful it made him feel, he looked her in the eyes and he lied.

 

"I promise."

 

* * *

 

 

They could bring Clark _back_.

 

Bruce knew the rest of the team had their doubts, were worried about Superman coming back as an evil zombie and didn't think they should mess with the laws of nature, but Bruce didn't care. They could give Martha her son back. Wasn't it worth it to at least try? Wasn't it worth the effort, the risk, if it meant they could give a mother back her son?

 

But Bruce didn't use that argument. He didn't want them searching Martha out, asking her if she thought it was worth it. If anything went wrong, he would make sure she never heard a whisper of it. But if everything went right, her child would be returned to her. To him, there was no choice.

 

* * *

 

 

It worked.

 

Clark was alive.

 

Clark was alive, and maybe he tried to kill Bruce, but it was okay because he was _alive_. The rest of the team didn't look as happy as Bruce felt, but that was fine. They didn't know what they had just done. Even if Clark decided to retire the cape, even if they failed at stopping Steppenwolf, it would be okay because they had returned Clark to Martha for at least a day.

 

* * *

 

 

Bruce was fairly certain he was going to die.

 

It was odd, how calm he was about that. Maybe this was the end of his penance. Maybe the universe had decided that he had to trade his own life for Martha's son's. It was okay, he decided. This way, both of them would get to see their sons again.

 

And then the rest of the team showed up and helped him take down the parademons, and suddenly he was much less certain of his own demise.

 

* * *

 

 

It was over. Steppenwolf was gone, the mother boxes were hidden away, and the League was officially formed. Bruce woke up late on the next Saturday morning, the first time he had done so in months. He didn't feel as though it was his place anymore to be at the Kent Farm for Saturday morning brunch.

 

At least, that's what he thought right up until his cellphone started ringing.

 

" _Bruce Wayne, why are you not at this kitchen table right this second?"_ Martha's voice was playfully angry over the line.

 

Bruce blinked. "Good morning, Mrs. Kent," he greeted cordially.

 

" _Oh, stop it with this 'Mrs. Kent' nonsense_ ," she said in a way that was slightly less playful and slightly angrier than she had been a second ago. " _How many times do I have to tell you to call me Martha? And you didn't answer my question: why aren't you here for brunch?"_

 

Bruce could hear a voice from over the line, one he honestly should have expected. " _Ma? Are you talking to Bruce?"_ Clark asked.

 

" _Clark! Clark, come over here. How fast can you fly to Gotham?"_

 

Bruce didn't like where this was going.

 

" _It'll take me a few minutes. Why?"_

 

" _Go get Bruce and bring him here, please."_

 

Bruce _really_ didn't like where this was going.

 

"Now, Mrs. Kent-"

 

" _Martha_ ," she corrected.

 

"Martha, please don't inconvenience yourself or your son on my account."

 

" _You're not an inconvenience, Bruce. Now Clark, go pick up your friend and bring him here. Don't give me that look, young man. Go on!"_

 

Bruce almost laughed, but managed to stop himself at the last second. He was so glad that this was possible once again.

 

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the front door. This time, he _did_ laugh when he opened it and saw the bewildered look on Clark's face.

 

"Um, Ma wanted me to come pick you up for brunch?" Bruce could hear the confusion in Clark's voice.

 

"I gathered. How do you want to do this?"

 

Clark just shook his head in disbelief. "Um, I guess I have to carry you?"

 

After a somewhat awkward flight, one that both men vowed never to tell Barry about (he was a good kid, he just didn't have a filter), Bruce was sitting at Martha's kitchen table. It was closer to lunchtime now, but that didn't matter. What mattered was them being there.

 

"So," Martha began, "wanna tell me why I had to send Clark to pick you up?"

 

Bruce had the decency to look ashamed. "I just thought that you would like to spend time with Clark without having to deal with someone else."

 

It was a testament to how fast Martha moved that Bruce didn't even see the wooden spoon in her hand until it hit him.

 

"Now you listen here," she said sternly, brandishing the spoon threateningly even as Bruce shook his hand to alleviate the stinging. "Clark dying was _not_ your fault. But you _did_ bring him back. So I don't care how much you think you're inconveniencing me. You will be here every Saturday at ten sharp until I say otherwise. Do I make myself clear?"

 

Now, Bruce would say that he's a rather brave man. A coward couldn't fight the people he fought on a nightly basis. But in that moment, he was truly terrified of what Martha might do if he didn't agree. So that's exactly what he did.

 

* * *

 

 

Roughly a month later, Batman got a new rouge to add to his gallery. A man calling himself the Red Hood had taken over nearly half of the Gotham underworld. At first, it looked horrible for Gotham. The death toll started rising (though curiously those with records or not enough evidence to arrest were being found dead more frequently than innocent civilians) and the bag of severed heads dropped off at the GCPD did nothing to assuage the police's fears. Some things, though, did start turning around. Drug dealers didn't sell to children or around schools anymore, the working girls were being treated better, and petty crime rates were in fact starting to decline. But it didn't really matter, because it appeared that Red Hood's main goal was to take out the Batman.

 

The League heard about it from Victor, the only other one who actually lived in Gotham. They wanted to intervene and help, but Bruce put his foot down. This person was after him, not them, and he wasn't about to put them in harm's way for his own gain.

 

Besides, he'd been dealing with the the likes of the Joker for years. How bad could this Red Hood be in comparison?

 

* * *

 

 

Bad. He could be very bad in comparison.

 

It turned out that the Red Hood didn't want Batman dead per se, though it appeared he wouldn't really care if the Bat did die. No, what he wanted was for Batman to kill for him. Specifically, he wanted Batman to kill the Joker.

 

Of course, Batman wasn't going to kill anyone. But he did go to the meetup that Red Hood had called for, in one of the many abandoned warehouses that dotted Gotham's shoreline. He crept inside and saw the Joker, tied up and unconscious on the floor, and the Red Hood standing above him. He couldn't see the expression on the man's face, what with the helmet and all, but his stature spoke of impatience and annoyance and anger.

 

With a flick of his cape, he landed in front of the rogue and stared at him, eyes hard. What was Red Hood going to say, to do, to get him to kill the Joker for him?

 

"Hey Bats," Red Hood greeted with a false cheer in his voice. "It's been a while."

 

"Have we met before?"

 

"Oh, you could say that. Guess you wouldn't recognize me, though. I mean, last time you saw me, this asshole-" he nudged the Joker harshly with his boot “-had a crowbar and a can of spray paint. Messy, but I guess he got his point across."

 

Batman felt like he was going to be sick when he realized what the Red Hood was implying.

 

Red Hood gave a dark chuckle at the look on Batman's face. "Heh, guess I was less subtle than I thought."

 

"You can't be him." He couldn't be. It wasn't possible. Was it?

 

"Can't I? Come on, you know me better than to lie about shit like this." And just when Batman expected him to continue talking, maybe boast a little bit about how he was going to get Batman to break his code and kill, the Red Hood continued to surprise him.

 

He reached up and took off his helmet.

 

Bruce - not Batman, Batman was long gone from this confrontation - stared in near horror as the man's face was revealed. It was a face he knew just as well as his own. Even better, some days. He was a few years older than he had been the last time he saw him, but there was no denying who it was standing in front of him. He didn't wonder about the causes that brought him back, didn't think about the killing or the crime sprees, didn't really think about anything other than _my son is alive_.

 

"Jason?" Bruce's voice was small, smaller than it had ever been.

 

Jason's answering smirk was twisted and dark. "Surprise. Now, time to make a choice. I've got two guns; one for me and one for you. Either you kill this bastard, or I do it while you watch and I leave for good."

 

Well, there really wasn't a choice, now was there? He couldn't lose his son again.

 

"Give me the gun."

 

Jason's eyes widened marginally, but he pulled a pistol from its holster and handed it over anyway. Bruce checked it over, seeing it was fully loaded and well taken care of. Where did Jason even learn how to use a gun? No, that didn't matter. Not now. Maybe later, but right now was about getting his son back.

 

Bruce had the shot lined up.

 

He took a deep, steadying breath.

 

His finger tightened on the trigger.

 

And then the window behind him exploded.

 

A figure in a bright red cape swooped through the falling glass and snatched the weapon out of Bruce's hand, putting itself between him and his son. Bruce tried to focus, but everything was a blur of red and blue and - was that silver? - as he was thrown backward, away from Jason. Jason, who took one look at the whirling mess and started running, even as Bruce called for him to wait.

 

Clark's face, furrowed in worry and confusion, came into view as everything began settling into place. If anyone could help him find Jason, stop him from running off, it was Clark.

 

"Clark, Clark, you've got to find him," Bruce said, hand grasping frantically at the Kryptonian's arm. "You've got to bring him back."

 

"Why? Why would you want him back? He almost turned you into a murderer!"

 

Bruce shook his head. "You don't understand. It's _Jason_."

 

"Who's Jason?"

 

"My _son_."

 

The confusion on Clark's face deepened, before blossoming into understanding. "Wait, _that_ son? Not the one in Bludhaven?"

 

" _Yes_."

 

Clark's features settled into determination. "Alright. We'll figure out how to get him back. I promise."

 

* * *

 

 

Bruce didn't know how they did it. Victor spouted some bullshit about video surveillance and online shopping patterns (really? Underground antiheroes shop on Amazon?) but somehow, they managed to track Jason down. Not that Bruce was told until after they'd gone and basically kidnapped him from his safehouse.

 

He only found out when the rest of the League strode into the Batcave and dropped a very irate Red Hood on the ground, complete with - was that a bow on his helmet? Bruce shot a look at Barry, because who else would put a sparkly blue gift bow on his son's head? Barry at least had the decency to look vaguely ashamed, though pride seemed to be winning over embarrassment. For once.

 

"Get off me!" Red Hood snapped, yanking his arm out of Arthur's grasp. He pulled off his helmet and tore the bow from the top, crumbling it in his fist. "You better run, Speedy," Jason said threateningly to Barry.

 

"That's kind of what ... I ... do?" Barry replied, trailing off when he realized most everyone was staring at him with incredulous looks. "What?"

 

Bruce's heart seized when Jason turned to look at him. That was his son. Of that, there was no doubt. He still had that stupid, cocky little grin that never ceased to infuriate Bruce when it was directed at him, that dark mess of hair that Alfred had nearly pitched a fit over before every gala and Wayne Enterprises event, marred as it was by that odd white streak (since when did Jason dye his hair?), that same piercing gaze (but why were his eyes green? Since when did Jason need contacts? Or were they an aesthetic choice?).

 

Bruce didn't even realize he was moving until his arms were wrapped around his son, giving him the tightest hug he'd ever given in his life.

 

His son was _home_.

 

* * *

 

 

It was almost a week before Bruce even thought to call his other son and tell him the news. When Jason - whom had taken to staying in a spare room in the lake house because "You guys have better food than I do, and I don't have to pay rent" - found out, he nearly fell over laughing.

 

"You mean to tell me you forgot to tell Goldie that I'm alive? Damn, Bruce, and I thought I was supposed to be the fuck up."

 

Both Bruce and Alfred snapped "Language!" but the point had to be conceded. Bruce hadn't meant to leave him out of the loop. It just happened.

 

With a heavy sigh, Bruce went to grab his phone. This was going to be unpleasant.

 

* * *

 

 

"Who the hell is that?" Arthur demanded as the League walked into the Batcave a few days later.

 

It was a fair question, Bruce rationalized. Just last week, only Bruce and Alfred could be found in the Batcave by visiting members of the League. Now there were two new faces. Well, one new face and one they knew as a violent antihero. Semantics.

 

"Oh," Barry said in a much nicer tone "are you Jason's boyfriend?"

 

Bruce watched with a smirk as Jason and Dick looked at each other from their respective spots - Jason working on the batmobile and Dick hanging upside down from a support beam, swaying gently back and forth - and grimaced in disgust.

 

"Gross!" Jason spat, moving as far away as he could from Dick, who was now looking at him with a mock-hurt expression.

 

"Aw, come on Little Wing," he said playfully. "Lots of people would jump at the chance to date me. You have no idea how hard it is for me to just walk down the street."

 

Jason rolled his eyes. "Yeah, 'cause you keep tripping over your own ego, dickhead."

 

"Language!"

 

The rest of the League just looked on in confusion, even as Dick flipped off the support beam and landed in front of them with a flourishing bow.

 

"To answer your question, no, I'm not his boyfriend. Not that he could get one, with his sparkling lack of personality," he said cheerfully to Barry. "I'm his brother. Dick Grayson, nice to meet you."

 

Bruce could _see_ the headaches beginning to form in his teammates' heads. Maybe he should ask Alfred to bring down some aspirin, just in case.

 

* * *

 

 

A few weeks later, on a bright Saturday morning, Bruce sat down in a familiar old chair, looking out over a familiar field, a cup of coffee in his hand. In front of him, sitting out on the grass, was most of the League.

 

Barry was a red blur, streaks of lightning following him as he ran through the grass. Bruce hoped he wouldn't set anything on fire. Victor was hooked up to the old tractor, something about seeing if he could find a way to enhance it so it wouldn't break down as often (Martha still wouldn't let Bruce just buy her a new one, yet she consented to that. Unbelievable). Arthur and Diana were sitting on a blanket, trading stories from Atlantis and Themyscria. Clark and Dick were sitting in the old tree - well, Dick was perched precariously on a too thin limb, while Clark was hovering just a few feet in front of him. Bruce had no idea what they were talking about, but judging from the excitement on Dick's face, he was pretty sure Clark had agreed to fly his son somewhere later on. Once a Flying Grayson, always a Flying Grayson.

 

And Jason . . . Jason was leaning against the base of the tree, the light creeping up his body as the sun continued to rise to its zenith, a small smile on his face. Bruce felt a matching smile tug at his lips.

 

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" Martha said, taking a seat beside Bruce. "Our boys getting along like this, I mean."

 

He shook his head, smile still in place. "I think what I'm having the hardest time believing is that they have the chance to get along at all. I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and this is all going to be a dream."

 

Martha lightly smacked Bruce's arm. "Don't go talking like that. Your boys are fine. And mine is fine. They're all alive and talking to us and everything is just fine, so don't you go ruining this with your pessimism."

 

Bruce chuckled. "Of course. But you do realize that Dick is never going to stop badgering Clark about his powers, right?"

 

Martha snorted, rolling her eyes. "I still can't believe his name is _Dick_. I thought I was gonna have to slap you when I heard you calling for him earlier."

 

"Alfred actually _did_ hit me when I brought him home. I'd never seen him so mad. But then that little nine-year-old just stepped forward and introduced himself and asked why I was in trouble..." Bruce trailed off, lost in the memory.

 

Martha laughed, pulling him back to the present. "Our boys are something, aren't they?"

 

Bruce looked over at them, smiling once again. "Yes, they are."

 

They truly were.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not actually the happiest with the ending of this. I just couldn’t figure out how to work in more scenes with Martha after the bits set during Justice League. But hey, it’s done, it’s long, and I did like most of it. Thanks for reading!


End file.
